


the places you'll go

by followsrabbit



Series: together again [6]
Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 17:03:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11445210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/followsrabbit/pseuds/followsrabbit
Summary: In which Noora and William really like traveling together.





	the places you'll go

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo I have not been to all these places, super sorry if any of the details are totally off base!
> 
> (Also, one of William's lines is directly inspired by Rainbow Rowell's incredible book Carry On <3)

_GDANSK_

“What if we went away for a weekend?” Noora asked in bed one night as she drew her fingers through her boyfriend’s dark, scrambled hair.

William tilted his head against her palm, consideration curling his lips. “A vacation?” Then a wry look at her bedroom door, through which they could hear Eskild belting the lyrics to a particularly upbeat pop song with his latest fling, all the way in the living room.

“We haven’t gotten much time alone since you moved in.” Her fingertips fell down his forehead until she was brushing the hair from his eyes with absent strokes. “It could be nice to get away.”

His smile reached up to touch the heel of her palm. “Where?”

Noora shrugged, running her fingers along his cheekbones. “I don’t know,” she said through a breath of laughter. “Somewhere cheap? Somewhere neither of us has been, maybe. Somewhere we both want to go.”

“We’ve never gone on a vacation together.” William kissed her palm one more time, dragging his lips along its deep lines. “I’ll go anywhere.” (The  _with you_  went unsaid.)

 *

Skyscanner had cheap, non-stop flights to Gdasnk later that month, so Poland won.

 *

Before they left, Eva predicted they would fly to Poland just to spend the entire weekend in their Airbnb bedroom.

Noora couldn’t say that Eva didn’t have  _some_ evidence—namely, the frequency with which she and William had taken to sneaking away into closets and his car lately—in her favor.

But Gdansk was beautiful, even more so than Google Images had made it look. All cobbled streets and narrow buildings and blue water. They walked through Długi Targ with the other tourists, taking in the stalls and bright colors that marked the marketplace. Soft blues and reds and oranges and purples. When they stopped in front of the Neptune Fountain, William nodded towards the bronze statue that rose behind its iron gate.

“Do you know the story?” he asked her.

Noora canted her head up at the sea god. “No.”

Knotting their fingers together, William rubbed his thumb up and down her knuckles. “The locals think the fountain used to run with liquor from Neptune. That the gate,” he gestured towards its iron curls with their twined hands, “is to protect the fountain from all the drunks.”

Noora squinted at the fountain for another second, and then at William. “You just happen to know that?”

William shrugged, and took a step away from the fountain, the pad of his thumb still massaging her hand. “I read it somewhere.”

Of course he had. Noora wondered just how much he’d ‘happened to read’ about Gdansk after booking their tickets. “Did your fan club at Nissen know you were such a scholar?”

“I’m not a scholar,” he replied as they wove around the meandering groups and flashing cameras.

Noora rolled her eyes. “I’ve seen your law school reading.”

“Don’t mention that,” he said, turning a look of mock warning on her. “No law school this weekend.”

And even though that was _highly_ irresponsible… “Okay.”

(No law school. No articles. Just them.)

*

They toured the Artus Court Museum next, staring up at its Gothic vault and scanning its list of famous, royal visitors. Then they walked by the statues waving from the Golden House before stopping for lunch at a small, nearby restaurant—where Noora convinced William to sneak into the single-person restroom with her.

"A restroom?” he repeated, almost laughing. Noora loved that sound. The pure, open delight in it. During their worst days in London, William’s silence had struck her hardest. Noora realized he’d thought she wanted space—but all she wanted now was for him to never feel so unreachable again. So untouchable. William’s reserve hadn’t extended to her since long before they’d started dating; you could tell by how poorly it fit.

She needed to be able to reach him, touch him. Always.

So Noora leaned across the round, two-person table, careful not to brush her striped sleeves into their brimming glasses of water. “It looked clean.” She wrapped her fingers through his.

He pulsed their grips and gave himself over to a breath of laughter. “Fucking hell, you’re amazing.”

Her quiet laughter blended with his.

 *

They spent the rest of the afternoon walking through an art museum, where William took too many photos of Noora staring at the paintings.

“You’re not supposed to be taking pictures of me,” Noora reminded him when she heard the camera click again.

He shrugged. “I can take pictures of whatever I want.”

“What if I want to make a photo album?”

His free arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her close enough for his smile to land in her hair. “I’d like a photo album of Noora.”

She rolled her eyes up at his. William’s brown gaze just kept glinting down at her.

(When she managed to steal the camera later, she didn’t use it to immortalize any of the sculptures they passed; only him squinting at them.)

 *

“Newlyweds?”

The river wavered around them with reflections of the city’s lights and sunset as they cruised by the harbor. Standing against the rail of the tour boat, Noora looked over from her spot against William’s chest, within William’s arms. Her head tucked against his. It took her a moment of scanning before she realized the English-speaking, Keds-clad tourist standing to their left was talking to them.

“Yes,” William answered, before she could clarify that  _no, we’re just vacationing._ “Touring Europe for our honeymoon.” His lips curved a peck into her hair.

Noora didn’t have the heart to contradict him when the woman—older, curly haired, and British—sighed: “So romantic. You two make me think of my honeymoon.”

She could feel William’s smile, still lurking among her blonde locks, growing wider and wider as they stared out at the water.

 *

"Newlyweds?” Noora asked him later, splayed out across the cream sheets of their Airbnb bed, their clothes strewn across the carpet.

William just brushed his fingers along her cheek. “We will be.”

Arcing against his pale fingertips, Noora raised her eyebrows at him. “I’m not getting married in high school.”

Trailing his thumb down to her collarbone, then to the rise of her chest, William raised his right back. “Little presumptuous of you, assuming I was proposing.”

“You’re the one assuming I'll say yes!” For old time’s sake, she bit her smiling lower lip and added, “Willhelm.”

Then he was pulling her closer to him, whispering “Noora,” pressing his hips against hers, and—“Say my name.”

She shook her head, still smiling as he pretended to growl.  _Make me_ , her bright eyes dared.

(He did.)

 *

"Noora,” Eva said when they got back, scrolling through their camera roll, “you know I love your face, but did you take any pictures of the actual city? These are all artsy shots of your profile.” She clicked next. “And the back of your head.” The camera beeped _next_  one more time. “I can  _almost_ see the building you’re looking at in this one.”

Emptying a box of pasta into one of Eva’s kitchen pots, Noora shrugged. “Biased photographer.”

When she turned around, holding back a smirk, Noora saw Eva’s phone out and her fingers darting across its screen. “I’m texting Chris,” she said, “to tell him that his best friend is ridiculously sappy.”

Noora tilted her head, and then nodded. “Yeah.”

* * *

_NOREJFELL_

"William, we can’t go on a ski vacation.”

“Why not?”

Sitting beside him on the living room couch, Noora glanced away from the movie they were ostensibly watching to roll her eyes at her boyfriend. “ _Because_ ”—her boyfriend who was currently booking a room at the nearest ski resort—“I don’t know how to ski.”

“You will.” A few locks of hair slipped past William’s eyes when he looked up from his laptop screen. “I’ll teach you. Anyone can ski.”

Which was probably true if you’d spent your high school years vacationing at a russ friend’s chalet. “You want to spend your birthday watching me fall all over a mountain?” Leaning back against a fringed pillow, Noora crossed her arms.

William’s lips twitched. “I’ve already seen you fall.”

"No, you haven’t.”

“You fell for me.” Humor tugged at the corners of his lips.

It prodded hers too. “Are you  _trying_ to get me to call you a cliché?”

“No, I’m trying to distract you into agreeing with me. Say that it’s working.”

Feet away, the TV, which neither of them had bothered to mute, burst with swelling, superhero music and super-villain explosions. Feet away in the other direction, Eskild’s voice pitched into the room.

“Oh my God, Noora.” Eskild himself followed, still clad in a silken robe, though the clock had just struck noon. “When your boyfriend says he wants to take you to a ski resort, you don’t whine that you can’t ski. Think of all the hot, ski condo sex you’ll be having.” On his way towards the kitchen sink and a glass of water, he leered at William. “If she won’t go, I will.”

Her boyfriend answered Eskild’s teasing with a smirk that sent her straight back to all his light first year flirting. “See?” he said to her, not bothering to lower his voice or look away from their roommate. “You have competition.”

Noora patted his shoulder. “I’m sure you two will have a very cozy time together.” William stole her palm barely a second later. His fingertips drawled questions across her palm lines until she finally interrupted another television screen explosion. “ _Okay_. For your birthday.”

(He booked their hotel with one hand, kept stroking her mound of Venus with the other.)

 *

Their first day at Norefjell brought sheets of snow down from the sky and sheets of ice across the slopes.

The hotel room was small and rustic—clearly more so than William was accustomed to, despite the months he’d spent living without his father’s money now, if his raised eyebrows were anything to go by—but that stopped mattering the minute they fell onto the bed. Fell on top of each other. Stayed there all day, only untangling their limbs for food and water.

“You like ski vacations,” William said, late into the night as snow continued to fill the high-altitude air beyond their window.

Noora shook her head into his palm. “No,” she denied, grinned.

“You like lying here with me then.”

She turned her cheek just enough to press her lips against his wrist.

*

The second day pulled them out of bed and onto the ski lifts. Noora had expected the world to loom impossibly white around them, yet, for every layer of powder, there were a dozen skiers to muddy it with ski soles and poles. Even now, sitting as close to William as the ski lift chair allowed, their knees touching and skis tapping, patches of snowboarders kept speeding beneath them to remind Noora that they hadn’t left reality for a snow globe.

(One of the speediest of those snowboarders wiped out right below them, a flailing mess of white snow, black snow-pants, and bright red sleeves. Noora winced.)

"You’re cute,” William said when she adjusted her goggles and helmet.

“Mhm.” The only headgear he’d donned was a grey hat—not even a particularly thick one. “We could be cute together if you’d wear a helmet.”

The cold breeze brushed the ends of his hair. “You’re cute,” he repeated.

* 

The third day, William had a newly rented ski helmet and a confession.

“I’ve been here before,” he told her that evening as they walked around the resort, limbs sore from two full days of skiing. Noora’s legs were sore, anyway. William had made it up to her with frequent hot cocoa breaks, all over the mountain.

Noora’s hair slipped past her ears when she tilted her head, baring their cartilage to the night’s frosted breeze. “During Nissen?”

His own hair shook past his forehead when he shook his head. “When I was younger. Eight maybe. Before the accident.”

Her throat dried of sound, her tongue of words. Noora pulsed her fingers with his, swallowed, and managed, “With your family?”

Noise hummed from the bars and restaurants dotting their stroll. William’s silent nod felt louder in her ears, her eyes, her chest. Or maybe just weightier.

“My mom spent the day in the spa, of course. No interest in stepping outside, never mind onto skis. And my dad liked the harder slopes, so we went into lessons.”

 _We_ meaning Nikko and Amalie. Names he almost never said.

His next smile looked painful. Like it cost his mouth something to wear. “Amalie fell on one of the easy runs and hurt her knee. The instructor said she was fine, but I saw her face. So when we reached the next lodge, I took her in for cocoa and refused to leave.”

“I can picture that.” Vividly. William, tiny of frame and skis, staring down a fully-grown instructor to declare that he was going to take care of his little sister, rules be damned. (In her head, he’d still worn his hair long enough to need comb it out of his eyes as he said it.)

“My father was furious.” She could picture that too. “But it was worth it. We just sat there, drinking cocoa for the rest of the day. We probably had eight cups.”

Noora held his hand even more tightly through her red mittens.  _Ever the protector_.

William didn’t say anything else as they searched for a restaurant, just tightened his grasp on her hand right back.

*

The third night, they only slept, faces buried in each other in lieu of the pillows.

*

The fourth day—

"Happy birthday, William.” The fourth day, they stayed in bed again to celebrate his birthday. She managed to find him a chocolate cake at a local bakery, decked with frosting white enough to match the snow.

“I couldn’t find any plates,” Noora apologized as she lifted the small bakery box onto the comforter, above their knees. “We might have to improvise.”

William grinned at her. Raked his eyes over her body, naked save for the wrinkled sheet. “I’ll manage.”

(She'd really thought she was growing out of blushing for him.)

* * *

_BARCELONA_

When they went to Barcelona, Chris and Eva came too.

"Chris and I have never gone on a vacation together,” Eva explained, spread out across Noora’s bed and looking up at the ceiling. “We can’t go alone.”

From her cross-legged spot packing on the floor, Noora glanced up to point out, “You’re alone all the time.”

“Not in a foreign city! I need someone to hang out with if he ditches me for a hot Spanish girl.”

“Eva. Chris wouldn’t take you to Spain just to hit on other girls.” _Honestly._

“And if I want to ditch him for a hot Spanish guy,” Eva carried on, unperturbed, “he’ll have William. It’s a good plan.”

 “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” She knew from William that Chris hadn’t even looked at another girl since he and Eva had officially started dating—that his fuck up with Emma back at Sana’s Eid party had provided him with a steady source of miserable regret, and that he had no intention of repeating it. (That William had no intention of letting him repeat if it meant he had to deal with  _that much_  whining all over again.) “Neither of you is ditching the other for anyone.”

And Noora knew from her friendship with Eva—not to mention basic observation—that she’d never cheat on anyone again. Ever. Let alone Chris, who Eva had spent the entirety of her (short-lived) second attempt at a relationship with Jonas missing. Who she was clearly crazy about.

Eva strained her chin to meet Noora’s exasperated stare. “Then we’ll party with our best friends in one of the best clubbing cities in Europe. It’s still a good plan.”

Biting her tongue, Noora rolled her eyes.

* 

"We don’t have to be here,” William said into her ear, his voice raised, but muted by the club’s blaring techno heartbeat. “We can leave.”

Pasted against his side, a club soda in her hand, Noora shook her head into his button-up white shirt. “No. This will be fun.”

Taking a swig of his beer, William squinted down at her. “Really.”

Okay, maybe not  _fun_. The club was crowded, loud, and frantic with pulsing lights. But they’d spent the day touring all the packed museums and Gaudi architecture she liked. No one had even complained when she nominated a—mostly vegetarian—restaurant called Flax  & Kale for lunch.

(Well. Chris might have complained a little, but William and Eva had glared him into shutting up.)

Even though Noora firmly believed that no one should visit a foreign city without seeing  _at least_  its very most famous sights, she knew that she’d dominated the trip itinerary so far; that the city was known for its clubs and that William didn’t get to party nearly as much as he once had. As much as their best friends still did.

She blinked up at him. “How else will I meet a hot Spanish guy?”

William nipped her ear. “There will be no meeting of hot Spanish guys.”

“Dance with me then.”

And he did, all night.

*

(There was in fact  _some_ meeting of hot Spanish guys, later, when Eva begged her to use her language skills to flirt their way into free drinks.  _Technically_ , Noora didn’t believe in the exchange of flirtation for beverages—the objectification and commodification of it.

But Eva was tipsily, insistently persuasive. And the drinks were insanely overpriced.

William and Chris both looked distinctly put out when they returned, Eva with a hot pink cocktail, Noora with a clear one that she immediately handed off to her boyfriend.

“We could have bought you drinks,” Chris said, the laugh lines on his face torn between offense and amusement.

Eva shook her head, offering him a sip of her cosmo. “Oh, that’s no fun.”

Meanwhile, Noora relaxed into William's arms.

“No more Spanish guys,” he kissed the letters into her neck.

She turned to pat his chest. “Enjoy your drink.”)

* * *

  _PARIS_

During Noora’s first year at university, William informed her that she should plan on missing at least one day of classes during her birthday week.

“You can’t just tell me  _a day_ ,” she said as they strolled down the city sidewalks beneath the cool winter clouds. “Which day?”

“Friday. Monday. You choose.”

(She didn’t realize at the time that she was choosing which day they’d be flying to Paris.)

*

“Pick for me.”

William frowned. “You don’t want to pick your own macarons?”

Standing in line at Laduree, surrounded by pastel decorations and pastries, Noora leaned a kiss into her boyfriend’s cheek. “Surprise me,” she challenged.

He narrowed his eyes at the display case. (Noora debated telling him that he didn’t have to look so serious—as though her first trip to Paris might implode from one badly chosen dessert.) (She’d obviously  _say_  if he skipped any of the flavors she wanted.)

When he glanced back at her a moment later, William immediately caught the smirk tempting the corners of her lips. “I’m winning this game,” he said, sounding more amused now that he realized the rules.

"We'll see," she teased.

William knew enough French to order in the language when they reached the counter. He didn’t falter when the slim cashier asked him which six he’d like:

 _Chocolate._ Easy, but yes.  _Lemon_. Yes.  _Raspberry._ Yes.  _Vanilla_. Yes.  _Rose_. Yes.  _Lavender._

“Six out of six,” she murmured against his earlobe as the man behind the glass display case packaged them into a long, light purple box.

 “Of course,” William said, raising a brow and a smirk for her. “I know you.”

She might even let him steal of one of her macarons.

*

Later, among the packed shelves of Shakespeare and Company, William swerved around the readers and tourists to wrap an arm around her waist.

“Want to play another game?” she asked once she’d strung her fingers through his.

His mouth, his eyes, his entire face seemed to arch. Noora rolled her eyes, swatting his chest. “Not that kind of game. Not here. Where would we even…” she shook her head.

William shrugged, unashamed and unfazed.

“ _No_. Our games don’t all have to be about public sex, William.” Noora looked up at the ceiling, and shook her head again. (Even if most of the ones she’d suggested lately, admittedly, were. Finding somewhere closed off enough, staying quiet enough, returning without raising eyebrows and questions.) “I’m going to find a book for you, and you’re going to find one for me.”

William tilted his head at her, his look intent.

Pressing her curved lips together, she shrugged.

He kept staring at her for another second, and then turned around. “Noora Amalie Sætre,” he said over his shoulder, “I’m going to find the best damn book you’ll ever read.”

She already had one in mind for him.

*

"Very funny,” he said outside the store fifteen minutes later, when he pulled the new, store-stamped copy of  _Pride and Prejudice_ she’d bought for him out from its paper bag.

(Eskild had nominated the 2005 adaptation for a Kollektivet movie night a few weeks before—which had resulted in his enthusiastic declaration that she and William were a  _complete_ Lizzie and Darcy romance. “You know, if Darcy gave up all the insane money and moved in with the Bennets in the end.”

“Who does that make you?” she’d teased from her spot on William’s lap.

“Jane of course. Your sweet, universally loved older sibling. Linn can be…” he waved a hand at their blanket-laden roommate. “Who do you want to be, Linn?”

“No one.”

“Linn can be that extra. The sitting one, who looks like she’d rather be in bed.”)

Now, in an effort to avoid milling tourists, Noora leaned against the fountain that stood outside the bookshop. “You haven’t read it,” she accused. “You can’t be a scholar and not read Jane Austen. People will call you a misogynist.”

William brought his face down to hers so that he could murmur, “I’m not a scholar” right into her mouth.

She bit his lower lip in reply. Then kissed it. Then kept kissing it until she felt the edges of a hardback poking her palm.

“ _The Little Prince_?” she read the title, slanting her chin down as she opened the front cover.

“It’s French. And it was my favorite when I was younger.” As soon as she opened her mouth to reply, he had two fingers pointed at her. “Don’t call me a cliché.”

But Noora just brought the book to her chest. “It was one of mine too.” Hugged it for a blink. “My parents donated my copy during a spring cleaning purge.”

She could  _feel_  his beam, strong as the sunlight.  _I know you_. He didn’t have to say it aloud this time.

*

On the actual day of her birthday, they drank hot chocolate at Angelina in the 1st arrondissement.

“Better than mine?” William asked through a crooked smile, rubbing a dash of chocolate from her mouth.

“No.” Her tongue swept across the skin just above her lip, brushing his thumb tip on its quest for misplaced cocoa. “Not cold enough.”

Angelina's hot chocolate tasted like actual melted chocolate, and definitely should have ranked above any hot cocoa he’d ever made for her. (Noora wasn’t entirely convinced that she  _wasn’t_  drinking melted chocolate.) It didn’t matter. William’s was William’s, and she’d never forget sipping it from the thermos he’d given her on their first date. Sipping it through those first moments of understanding him, of realizing, dreading, that she could  _like_  him.

Laughter haunted William’s next breath. “Happy birthday, Noora.” 

* * *

  _MADRID_

The next time they looked at flights, Madrid was the cheapest option.

“Here?” William asked.

Sitting beside him on her fully made bed, her laptop propped between them, Noora pressed her lips together. She hadn’t been to Madrid since moving to Oslo. Hadn’t particularly wanted to. None of her friendships there had been strong enough to last the distance, and her memories there hadn’t been bright enough to bring her back.

Objectively, Noora knew Madrid was a beautiful city. Vibrant. Lots of culture, lots of people, lots to do. It wasn’t fair that her memories of living there all echoed in shades of grey and isolation.

“I don’t know.”

Without raising his head from her shoulder, William met her eyes. “You never miss it?”

Noora leaned her head against his. Considered that. Madrid had meant a lot to her at the time—would probably always mean a lot to her, in some ways. Independence and freedom and loneliness and new beginnings. “I like where I am now.” Her eyes fell back to the screen. “But maybe I miss a few things.” A few restaurants and parks and sights. Not the guarded pieces of herself that might still haunt its streets.

"Will you show me?”

She didn’t answer aloud, but knew he could feel her nod.

*

Madrid should have been just as she remembered it. She should have gotten deja vu or maybe even nostalgia, walking the same routes that she’d wandered at age fifteen.

 _Fifteen._ So young to be so alone. Noora realized that now, even if she hadn’t at the time.

“I’m picturing you living here,” William told her, scanning their every surrounding. The open apartment windows, the beaming sun, the rushing traffic.

Noora shook her head. “I know it was only a few years ago, but it feels like another life.” Another city, now that she had longer hair, a lighter smile, a phone buzzing with missed group message texts from her friends, and William’s arm around her. William’s hand in hers. William with her.

He could have mocked for the cliché of that sentence, but didn’t. “I like you in this life.” Instead, he stopped looking around the city, at least for a moment, to look at her.

 _So much lighter_. “Mhm. I’m likable.”

William grinned into her hair.

 *

On Sunday, they lay on a blanket at Parc du Retiro, the grass sunlit green around them. Empty, takeaway salad containers sat forgotten at their sides as Noora breathed into the crook between William’s neck and shoulder, his fingertips long lost in her hair.

They had a night flight. Only a few more hours left here.

"What do you want to do before we leave?” William mumbled, his eyes half-closed.

Noora turned her cheek slightly, until she was peering up at the blue sky. They’d already taken the Teleférico to look over the whole city. (The bird’s eye view from the cable car had been beautiful; the promised food at the top had not been. Just frozen restaurant meals and vending machines, no fruit whatsoever. She’d made it up to herself by insisting that they go to her favorite hummuseria for a late lunch.)

They’d done other things too: the Temple of Debod, desserts at Chocolatería San Ginés, the stalls at Mercado de San Miguel.

All terribly touristy. All the best times she’d ever had in Madrid.

She reached up to press her lips into her boyfriend’s cheek. “Can we just do this?”

William’s hands kept up their rhythm in her hair when he nodded. “Anything.” Then when he kissed her.

(The  _with you_ went unsaid.)


End file.
